Bricks and Dark Men in Suits
by ASpellBinds
Summary: There's a (alternate universe) Sherlock Holmes in 12A, and he's just been called down to the country to help Chrestomanci solve a case. Set between Charmed Life and Stealer of Souls, with no specific time for Sh.H. (Note: the village in the story is NOT one of the magical villages from The Pinhoe Egg. It's in a quite different direction.)


There is a house. It's just been finished, and it sparkles and shines. Strangely, this is the only way in which it looks unusual – it's just an ordinary comfortable little grey-brown cube, with a pretty garden blooming around it.

It stands on the edge of a village. There is nothing special about the village either - just a few rows of the same grey-brown blocks, with similar little green gardens.

All the people in this village are completely ordinary too. At least, as ordinary as you can get in 12A – which isn't very - especially considering the village is pretty close to Chrestomanci Castle. Still, they're ordinary enough.

There's a group of people around the house. There's been a group here for a few days now, but it's suddenly become very big. Someone has arrived.

This someone is standing in front of the house right now, apparently having a vague staring match with the door. Then, taking a deep breath, he _looks_ at the house. Seeming surprized when this has no effect, he _looks_ again. The fact that this second attempt was just as unsuccessful as the first seems to annoy him. He _looks_ once more, now doing it quite ferociously, with an irritated little frown appearing on his forehead. Realising the lack of result on the third try, a dangerous calmness settles on him. Slowly, composedly, he turns and gets back into the shiny black car waiting on the street.

After a few days of virtually the same thing a young blond boy, standing in the group of people, suggests something, the black car slides into the drive of Chrestomanci Castle, and the dark man in the soft grey suit dials a number on the phone and talks even more calmly and quietly into the mouthpiece for a few minutes. The file he's leafing through at the same time is headed 'Raspberry Cottage', and it's full of his neat, slanted handwriting

The information from this call travels through a few more phone lines and offices (these getting more and more luxurious by the phone call) until a middle aged man in the most luxurious office yet picks it up. He listens, nods, and answers that he's got 'just the man for it'. Then he picks up the receiver of his private line, and, crossing his fingers beneath the table, calls a familiar number.

* * *

My friend Sherlock Holmes got most of his cases over the years as a last resort, a person to turn to once the magicians failed. Of course, he always solved it impressively, and afterwards was the centre of praise, but hardly anyone came straight to him. People always liked to put their trust in magic rather than simple deduction. There was one case, however, where he was the first choice, the perfect man for the job. I've always felt that he remembered this case with special pride, and it certainly gave his (already quite big) ego a boost at the time.

I had just come back from a visit to one of my regular patients, and had found my friend had abandoned his usual position on the couch, and was standing in front of the window. He turned around to face me the moment I came through the door, but I had just enough time to see his satisfied little smile reflected in the window.

"You took your time", he said, and I could see he was itching to tell me some news, trying his best to seem bored and uninterested.

"I was at Mrs. Green's, you know how her hip is", he didn't, of course. Sherlock's incredible memory never seemed to extend to my patients. "Ummm… has anything happened?"

"Nothing special," he answered, his voice brimming with contained excitement.

"Ok". I walked out, taking my papers out of my bulging bag. Ignoring him was a tried method of getting Sherlock to talk, and sure enough, he followed me into the study, the story rolling out of his mouth, accompanied with a barely contained smirk.

"Mycroft called. He's got a case for us", he said, standing by my table, tracing circles with his fingers on my latest stack of papers. "There's something strange happening down in the country, close to Chrestomanci Castle".

"Chrestomanci? Isn't he a kind of umm, special magic policeman? Does he need our help too now?"

"Oh yes", he confirmed happily, "Apparently, something has happened which he can't deal with. A house has become a magical black hole or something like that."

I could see why Sherlock was happy now. The man was the strongest enchanter in the world, and probably the whole series. If he was asking Sherlock for help, the situation must be curious.

"So, when are we going to the country, then?"

"Tomorrow. Don't bother to pack; I'm sure we won't be there long."

I packed a bag anyway. The situation had sounded like it could get complicated. I'd rather hoped it wouldn't.

* * *

Cat racked his brain for a reason - any reason. Anything, really, that would prevent Chrestomanci from taking him down to that weird house again tomorrow.

It had sounded interesting at first, a mysterious house that no-one actually knew what was the problem with. Sadly, as is the way of life, the reason for this inexplicitly extended to adventure - hungry children.

He'd arrived in the car with Chrestomanci, Roger and the girls. All of them had begged to come when Chrestomanci asked Cat. They'd expected some amazing adventure with evil magicians, love affairs, and a lot of running away from things (or at least Janet had- it was all those books she read). What they hadn't expected was a lot of standing around staring at an ordinary looking house, trying, once in a while, to get close to it, and getting pushed away from it smoothly and unnoticeably.

All the Castle team had managed to learn these last two days was that the house was some kind of black hole for magic. Nothing magical could get close to it, especially not people. It rejected all kinds of spells- nothing they'd tried worked, and they'd tried everything.

In Cat's opinion, the house wasn't so much a black hole as simply _not there _in anything concerning magic. There was no magical wall, no force – nothing noticeable. If you tried to walk into it you just slid around it, without being able to tell what was actually stopping you from entering. Spells didn't rebound, they just passed through it, and if you tried to use your magical sight there was nothing to see.

It confused everyone.

The others had left early on, realising there was no excitement to be had, but Chrestomanci had insisted that Cat stay. He seemed to think Cat would be able to do something about it. Cat didn't think so.

At the end of the second day he'd suggested, out of frustration and tiredness, that they should get someone non magical to do something about it. A few people with no magical power had already been inside, experiencing no problems at all (except perhaps a weak pull on their clothing or accessories), and had come out with disappointing news. On the inside, the house gave an even more ordinary impression. Cat just didn't think they were competent enough to notice anything. However, Chrestomanci had thought about Cat's suggestion for a while, and had had a long conversation on the phone once they got back.

Cat was sitting in his room, trying to concentrate on a complicated theory book, when Janet burst in through the door.

"Chrestomanci's just got of the phone!" she panted excitedly, "they're sending someone tomorrow!"

"Really? Who?" Cat asked dispassionately.

"Some famous completely non magical detective called Sherlock Holmes! He's arriving at 9." Janet's eyes where bright and wide, and she was still breathing heavily from her run up the stairs. Cat thought she probably imagined a detective was all that was needed to bring her stories back to life. "Can you imagine? A real detective, here working with Chrestomanci! Things can't stay boring now!"

* * *

Two men are bickering in a car. They're both nervous, and one of them is trying to get the other to wear a hat. The one who's supposed to wear it objects that it has ear flaps – it's an ear hat, John! The other answers, a lot more calmly, that it's a deerstalker, it's just the right hat for the country, and anyway, it was a gift from Mrs Hudson, so will you just put it on Sherlock for god's sake!

After a few mutters in the direction of the window about the fact that Mrs Hudson isn't going to know, is she? he puts it on. The other, satisfied, turns his attention to the majestic view that can be seen through the window.

* * *

When the sleek black car that had met us at the station drew up in front of Chrestomanci Castle I couldn't help being impressed. The building had a certain British grandeur about it that you couldn't ignore. And, as we got closer, I could feel the place humming with the certain vibe I had come to associate with magic. Every tiny part of it was bursting with some kind of enchantment, although, sadly, I did not have the skills to discern what kind.

Sherlock had been quiet the whole way, and had started intently at the house, as if trying to glean from it any information possible about its master. In my opinion, he was as eager to impress as a child meeting a long-admired role-model.

The door was opened by the classical butler, and we were then led into an imposing hall with the familiar pentacle at its centre. At the side of this room stood a tall man, surrounded by a few more figures, talking to a small blond boy.

"Ah, Mr Holmes." The man turned around slowly as we approached, and spoke in a cold, slightly bored voice, implying that he had better and more important things to do than talk to us. His dark eyes darted quickly from me to Sherlock, focusing for a second on my friend, and becoming as vague as his voice when turned to me.

"And Mr umm…" he glanced at some papers in his hand, "Warton?"

"Watson, Dr Watson, yes", I mumbled.

Chrestomanci was tall, dark, and handsome. He looked like the dark stranger most young girls dream of. He was wearing an amazing tailored grey suit, which fitted him perfectly – although he didn't look quite as comfortable in it as you might have thought. But there was more. He had an aura of power around him, calm, controlled power, even though his posture and expression were stiff and bored. You could feel immediately that this was not a man you'd want to cross. I finally realised why Sherlock was so excited by this meeting. From a first glance, they seemed to have much in common in the way of haughty grandeur and quiet power.

Sherlock himself had not said a word, or even moved a finger, since we'd entered. All he did was stare at Chrestomanci intently, scrutinizing him for every detail. I recognised the signs of frustration in the small crease on his brow and the slightly curled fingers. His deduction of the enchanter was not going satisfactorily.

The plump, bustling lady next to Chrestomanci introduced everyone around us, graciously and kindly. Most of them were clerks of some kind, and did not seem very interesting. The only standouts were a young blond boy, introduced as a ward of some kind, and surprisingly, the lady herself as the enchanter's wife. At the time, I thought this a very strange match, although my opinion has changed since then.

"I am really so sorry we couldn't get a better welcome for you, but you see, most of the staff are away on holiday, and all the others are already down at the cottage." She explained, apologetic and caring. "And the children were so excited – sickness always hits at the worst of times, don't you think? It's the flue season, and Roger and the girls are sick, so sadly only Cat is here. But I really must go myself! Don't worry, Chrestomanci will explain everything, and I'm sure you'll feel yourself at home quite soon, even if you're not to stay that long – we always love visitors…" she glanced at her husband uncertainly, and, smiling at us, bustled away. She seemed quite lovely, in fact, and I was sorry she had to leave, as Chrestomanci continued to be vaguely uninterested.

"I have asked you to come here, or rather, have asked for non-magical assistance, only as a last resort. A matter has come up, that of because of slight inconveniences, I am unable to deal with." Chrestomanci continued, his voice monotonous. His dark eyes, vague now, were still focused on Sherlock, but everything else about him implied that he did not care much. "If you will follow me into the study, I will make the details clear to you. I hope it will not prove too much of a problem."

Sherlock inclined his head a fraction. His gaze was still completely focused.

They both turned, and walked slowly down the adjacent corridor, Chrestomanci leading the way in the smallest distance possible. Sherlock, as usual, did not give up control easily.

As I started to follow them, Chrestomanci turned back, and spoke to the small boy.

"Eric, why don't you show Mr Bartson around the house while Mr Holmes and I discuss matters? We won't be long."

So I was left with the boy, the clerks trickling away around us. I did not mind, as I felt the discussion that was to occur subsequently in the study would not be pleasant. The boy seemed to share my opinion. He stared forlornly after the two dark figures, and then turned his face to me.

"Well, that's not going to end well."

* * *

As the two men walked away, Cat wasn't sure what he thought of Holmes. In fact, he thought, there was no way he could have formed any opinion about the man. He hadn't spoken a word since he'd come through the door! On the other hand, he gave an unusual impression - even the man's hat was strange. A deerstalker, wasn't it? It actually looked good on the detective, although Cat couldn't imagine anyone else wearing such a thing, ever.

Dr Watson, on the other hand, appeared pleasant enough. He'd been courteous and friendly so far, and hadn't seemed much moved by Chrestomanci's cold vagueness. That, in Cat's opinion, was the most affective commendation yet, as Chrestomanci was not in a good mood that day.

It was strange, really. The enchanter had been agitated all morning, and had even put on a suit before noon – very unusual for him. In fact, before the men had walked in, he'd looked positively excited, to someone who could read him as well as Cat could (which was not well at all. We're talking about Chrestomanci, after all.) But when he'd seen Mr Holmes, he'd gone cold, and his face had settled into an expression of more then usual vagueness. All in all, Cat had no idea what to make of the situation. He rather thought Dr Watson didn't either.

Still, there was no point in hanging around.

"So, I guess I could give you a tour?" he started timidly, "umm, that is, if you don't want to wait here…"

The doctor shook himself a bit, and turned to Cat.

"No, no, no point in waiting around, I suppose. Lead the way!" he sounded as if he was worried, and forcing himself to be cheerful. Cat knew the feeling.

"So, I though Mrs Chre- sorry, Mrs Chant saying something about you being trained for the next Chrestomanci?"

"Yes." Cat didn't really know what to say. He never did in these occasions. Should he explain about the nine-life thing? Surely a detective's partner would know about that, wouldn't he?

He wished the girls were here. Even Roger would do. They were all so much better at talking than him. But they were all probably groaning in bed under masses of sheets, Julia devouring books and Janet annoying Roger. Like Millie said, they always got sick with horrible timing, all three together – no matter how many precautions they took. Cat couldn't understand why he never caught anything. Being the only child around had started to annoy him, especially when he had to entertain strangers.

"So you have nine lives, do you? That, um, that's impressive" So Watson did know; what a relief. And he didn't sound any more comfortable than Cat felt.

"Actually, it's a bit less now", Cat mumbled, and when Watson continued to look at him expectedly, he continued "It's complicated", and turned back to the tour. The doctor didn't mention anything personal after that, much to Cat's relief.

Cat took Dr Watson on a rather roundabout tour of the castle, showing him mostly random things he thought were interesting. And the doctor was interested. He was a man of the city, he told Cat, and an old-fashioned castle like this wasn't something he saw everyday.

He didn't seem in the least bit intimidated by all the grandeur, though. Cat remembered his first days in the castle, and how frightened he'd been, surrounded by the building's rich muffling spell blanket. Moreover, it was obvious the man was at least a low-grade magician, so must be feeling something at least. But the only look on Watson's face was curiosity, and a bit of anxiety, as if his mind was in another place. Cat rather thought he was used to new and strange places.

* * *

A few minutes into the tour of the frankly quite amazing building, the boy spoke out in a quiet, timid, yet genuinely curious way.

"Your friend, he's not an enchanter, is he? I mean I can't feel any magic in him."

I shook my head decisively. Everyone knew Sherlock was no magician.

"That's what I thought. I'm not usually wrong, you see" The boy continued. "But he holds himself like one, and he has the same powerful feeling about him that Chrestomanci does. I thought only enchanters felt like that."

I couldn't make heads or tails of this statement at the time, although it was quite similar to what I had been thinking. To tell the truth, Eric mystified me – he still does. He seemed to think in a roundabout sort of way, and took a lot of things for granted. And although he was extremely shy, he managed to say some things, that day, that still have me thinking hard today.

At the time I simply explained, "Sherlock likes to be in control, to know everything – maybe that's what you're feeling."

It sounded like a good explanation to me, but Eric just shook his head. He didn't say anything more on that walk, though, and we started heading back soon after that.

* * *

After about half an hour of wandering, they reached, without actually speaking about it, a mutual decision to go back to the hall.

They timed it perfectly. Just as they'd reached the end of the corridor leading to the hall, they heard muffled conversation and the sounds of two pairs of feet, both in smart shoes, moving from fluffy carpet to the tiles of the hall.

The two men approached, now walking completely in line. They weren't making a lot of conversation, just a few monotone words once in a while. Cat sighed. Chrestomanci was looking even colder and vaguer than before, and Holmes had a strange wooden look. Neither of them looked as if the discussion had gone well.

When they had joined Cat and Watson, all of them set out to the door without saying a word. As the stepped out of the house, however, Sherlock turned to Chrestomanci.

"Before we go I feel I must inform you that one of your clerks is a spy from series 4 sent here to gather information about your doings." He stated, as if playing an ace in a game of poker. "That is easily deducible from his posture, his skin tone, together with the tan marks around his ears and on his neck."

Cat was dumbfounded. He had felt strange, alien magic about one of the workers, Jefferson, for some time – he hadn't dared to say anything, though, because well, Cat never dared say anything- but Holmes was so obviously unmagical there was no way he could haven noticed. A tan? A posture? It sounded illogical to him.

Chrestomanci's look became even colder on this comment. As he opened his mouth, Cat thought- 'he's going to have a smart answer- of course he is. But that's only going to make things worse. Smart answers never help in these kinds of situations'.

Sadly, as he hurried down the stairs to the car, he still had no trouble hearing Chrestomanci's answer.

"I was aware of that, Mr Holmes. What you have been unable to deduce, it seems, is that he was also an invaluable link to some top organizations in that series, a link that we have been using successfully for some time now. Sadly, I will now have to get rid of him, as the chances he heard you are high. Next time, I would thank you to keep your deductions to yourself."

Ouch! thought Cat. He didn't need to turn back to see Holmes' reaction. The two were fighting like little boys over who'd stick is bigger.

* * *

On the way down to the cottage Sherlock was quiet again. He wouldn't say anything about the meeting, except that 'he'd gotten all the information he needed'. From his look, it was obvious he and Chrestomanci hadn't 'hit it of'. I felt this was a pity, because I had got the impression that they had very similar personalities. That's the problem with similar people, though; they usually have only two options: close friends or archenemies. This relationship, sadly, appeared to be sliding into the archenemy side very quickly.

When we reached the cottage Chrestomanci and young Eric were already standing there. They'd offered to teleport there so we could fit in comfortably in the car, probably just another move in the two men's pointless new war to impress one-another.

So of course, Sherlock was on full observation mode from the moment we stepped out of the car. I could see his eyes darting around, and you could almost hear the cogs in his brain clicking furiously. It was a wonder he didn't solve the case in the first five seconds.

He made a few of the regular deduction about the house (you know, owner's mentality, the worker's love life, how many flies had been there in the last few hours. The usual.) By the end, Eric had a slightly shaken look, but Chrestomanci showed no sign of having gone through the Sherlock fact grinder, a thing that only a few can withstand. This elevated him considerably in my esteem, although at the time I tried not to show it – Sherlock was deeply frustrated by the fact that he had not made even the slightest impression.

I think, though, that by that time quite a lot of my friend's attention had been diverted by the problem. The cottage looked ordinary in a confounding way, a complete block for me. Therefore it fascinated Sherlock, and concentrated his mind like only a good case could.

After a few minutes of standing around, staring, he came over to me.

"Well, John, I think I have gained all the information I can from the exterior of the house, and must now enter it" he stated grimly "That means, sadly, that I shall have to leave you to your own again" and with this he turned, and pushed his way past some people and into the house without another word.

I was a bit dumbfounded by my friend's sudden exit. The suddenness I put down to his foul mood, but I that still didn't explain to me why he did not think I should enter with him. My puzzlement didn't last long, though, as Chrestomanci – rather reluctantly in my opinion, probably nudged over there by Eric – came over to me and explained.

"If you are wondering why you cannot enter the place with your associate, let me explain it to you" he said coldly, and continued without giving me time to answer "The house, as you know, repels magic, and that also means that people with magical power , however small, find it impossible to enter. This is actually the explicit reason we called your partner here, as non-magical persons with even a minimal amount of experience are not common in this area." With this, Chrestomanci seemed to think he'd done his duty, and turning, walked away, leaving me to wonder how much I had just been snubbed.

* * *

Jamie, the local innkeeper's son, was leaning on the fence of Rasberry cottage, watching the proceedings. He'd come with his friends to see what the fuss was all about, but they'd left a long time ago. In his opinion, this showed they had a short attention span.

Jamie always thought people had a short attention span, and everyone else just thought Jamie was simple.

Waiting was worth it, though. For example, his friends would have loved to see the Big Man come back, or the weird hyper man he'd brought with him, who everyone said was a detective. Jamie was rather fascinated by the way the man ran around and talked continuously without breathing. He didn't think there was any point in that kind of behaviour, but he still felt it was a pity the man had gone into the house so quickly.

A bit later (Jamie wasn't a person for time-keeping) the man came out again, looked around, and headed straight for Jamie. Slowly the boy raised his head and straightened a bit.

"You're not a magic user are you boy? Not a drop of magic in you – it's obvious. Yes? And your muscles appear to be well trained, if a bit padded. Good. Now come with me, I need you to help me with something. Don't worry, it's nothing dangerous."

Slowly, patiently, Jamie stood up, and followed the man, past all the milling people, and into the cottage.

It was nice inside. It reminded Jamie of his grandmother's house when it was new. There was a strange hum in the air, though, and you couldn't hear any sounds from outside, not even birds or insects. That wasn't very pleasant, he thought. It really ruined the feeling of what might have been a very nice house.

The man had a piece of clothing he'd gotten from the other tall man outside, the one in the suit. He was running around the walls, sliding what Jamie supposed might have been a tie close to the surface, covering every inch systematically. Jamie liked the way he didn't miss out even one tiny bit of wall, but it looked too frantic to him to be really useful in any way.

When the man reached a point above the living room mantelpiece with the tie, it stopped, suddenly. It looked, thought Jamie, as if that spot was rejecting the tie.

The man straightened, and smiled at the wall. Then he beckoned to Jamie.

"Boy, come here. Do you have a knife? Of course you do. I need you to take this brick out of the wall, yes, I know it's covered in paint, but it's _here_." The last words were accompanied by a jab at a spot just above the middle of the mantelpiece.

The house was brick- walled, the interior covered in lovely dark brown colour, a very good quality one judging from the texture. It was a pity to scrape it down, and even more of a pity to take out one of the nicely organized reddish-brown bricks forming the wall, but Jamie did it anyway. It wasn't his house, was it?

Once the paint was down, the man used the tie again, and pointed at a specific brick. Jamie felt the man was almost jumping in excitement.

Jamie worked carefully, scraping around the edge, slowly and patiently getting the brick out. After a while, the man could not contain himself any longer, and had started pacing around the room, reciting things under his breath.

Then, the brick was out. It came loose into Jamie's hand suddenly, and with such a force that he lost his balance and fell to the floor. It weighted on his hand like steel.

He wasn't the only one affected, though. The brick came out with a woosh, and a kind of shock wave that rocketed round the room. The humming stopped, and all the outside noises were present again, accompanied by loud shouting, and feet thumping quickly in his direction.

Jamie stood up slowly. The man was by his side in seconds, trying to take the brick from him. However, it proved too heavy for him to lift, and he had to drop it back into the boy's hands. It took all Jamie's strength to take it back and prevent it from falling, but it gave him a warm, comfortable feeling in his arms, so he did it happily.

Then in came through the door all the people that accompanied the shouting. First was the Big Man, who stopped calmly, if a bit surprisedly, and straightened his tie. Bursting in after him was a short, scruffy middle aged man, noticeably relieved by the sight he saw, taking deep breathes and leaning on the wall. There was a slight pause after this (only a few seconds. But, as you know, Jamie wasn't a person for time-keeping) in which the two men tried to catch their breath. Then came in quick succession a boy, clearly the most athletic of them all and looking cool and undisturbed, a few kids form the village, a few of the dry men in suits, and a plump woman, who took one look at the situation, sighed, and walked right back out.

The man didn't seem to take any notice of this enlarging crowd, and went on staring intently at the brick in Jamie's hands. He only looked up haughtily when the Big Man, now fully composed, sent all the others into the bedroom and kitchen and came towards them, the young boy close behind him. The scruffy man detached himself from the squeezing crowd and followed them, keeping his distance. Everyone's gaze was focused on the brick in Jamie's hands.

He didn't like all the attention, and the comfortable feeling in the brick was fading. Oh, well.

* * *

"So, you found the source, and apparently deactivate it", Chrestomanci said uninterestedly. The vague look that had almost disappeared from his face once Holmes had taken his tie and gone back inside with it had come back, full power.

"The effect's stopped", Cat explained from under the Chrestomanci's elbow. "That's why we could all come in, and I can _see_ this house clearly now." And he could see the brick, too, which was puzzling. There was nothing special about it, and yet the black holeness of the Cottage was gone – they'd rushed inside the moment everyone realised what the magical shockwave meant.

Holmes, looking very pleased with himself, explained. It was obvious he was used to long narrative-like explanation of his method, and he elaborated and complicated a lot. Cat didn't think anyone but the three standing closest to him actually understood a word.

The gist of it was this: the detective had deduced, due to his amazing logical power, that the repellent was not one object in the house, but something that made the whole building a kind of generator ('it was the patter of the grass outside and the way the birds were flying above it that made it evident to me!'). Inside the house, he saw no object that might have caused this, in fact, he saw nothing unusual at all. Therefore, to confirm his suspicion that the object was built into the wall, and to ascertain exactly what spot was the strongest repellent, he'd come out again for the tie ('I needed a non-magical object that was at the same time soaked in magic, and the tie fitted my needs perfectly. There was no other reason, no.'). He'd taken the boy, Jamie, to get the brick out of the wall, in need. Using the tie, he'd found the location of the brick, and had got it out with the help of the boy. Once out, it was no longer part of the house, and without that generator it had no effect.

By the end of this Chrestomanci's vague look had been replaced by a slight smile, and Cat was trying to work out what the brick actually was, without much luck.

Holmes, of course, was looking at Chrestomanci, who was nodding slightly, obviously reaching some conclusion. The detective already appeared to have reached a sure deduction, and typically, assumed everyone else had too.

The doctor, however, had not. "Sherlock, um … what exactly is this brick then? Because it looks like just another wall-brick."

"It's a Tomhorian temple brick, of course. You must be aware this place was Tomhorian land a long time ago." He answered, turning to his friend in exasperation. Seeing the confused look on Watson's face and everyone else's (except one boy in the corner who was a local history nerd) he continued. "The Tomhorians were a large tribe that practiced non-magical arts. Over the years they produced many magic repelling objects, their large temples acting as enormous generators for this strange energy. The brick must have been some relic lying around until a careless worker picked it up, and it started acting as soon as the house was finished. These things are designed to work as a whole, a building, so once it was out of the wall the 'temple effect' ceased." He stated all of this quickly and impatiently, as if it was obvious, and explaining it was a waste of time.

This felt like the right explanation to Cat, and he thought Chrestomanci had probably reached the same theory, too. As the detective concluded his narration, answering a few more questions from the confused Doctor, Cat had just enough time to spot Chrestomanci's smile growing into a full fledged grin, and then fading quickly as Holmes turned to him.

From then on, everyone behaved as if everything was finished. It was all about packing up and leaving, and the house owner babbling on about how relieved he was the cottage was now liveable.

When Cat asked Chrestomanci what was going to prevent another relic being built in, he'd simply answered distractedly that they'd take precautions from now on – and oh, he'll just talk to some people later. Anyway, he was far too busy talking to Mr Holmes to take care of anything right now.

The two men stood in the middle of the rapidly emptying room, talking quietly. All he coldness was gone, and although both of them were still extremely formal, this was just due to their personal style (neither of them had what you would call a warm character).

It broke the ice, Cat though to himself, the fact that Holmes solved it. Chrestomanci doesn't often meet someone whose brain works in a similar way, and he's just realised Holmes' does. It felt right, in a way, in the same way their coldness had felt wrong.

"So, it seems the ice is broken".

Cat looked up. The only person still in the room, except himself, the enchanter and the detective, was Watson, who was now standing beside him, looking at the two men talking in a satisfied yet slightly jealous way. He didn't need to explain what he meant.

"It could have gone both ways, though" answered Cat "probably still can."

Watson shrugged. "Let's just be glad it went this way. I wouldn't want to see those two as enemies, not at all. I'd take a tribal brick over that any day".

* * *

A man is staring out of the window on a train, letting the movement calm him. His friend is reading the newspaper beside him and saying something about a boy called Eric… or is it some cat? He doesn't listen. It's been an eventful day, if strangely devoid of criminals. Anyway, he's sure enough of those are waiting for him back in London.

No, today he's met someone a lot more interesting than the average criminal. A man who is powerful and vain. A man who does not like to show his feelings. A man who's brain works fast. A man who likes to be in control, who is good at being in control. A man in whom he saw a reflection of himself.

A man whose card he had in his coat pocket, a card he was going to use to write a long letter once he got back to Baker Street.

A man, in short, that understood.


End file.
